


Would It Really Kill You If We Kissed?

by NotAnAngel97



Series: In Any Place in Time, You Are Mine [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Art Dealer! Napoleon, Humour, I hope, Illya and Gaby are still U.N.C.L.E. though, Illya being a little shit, M/M, Napoleon is a Little Shit, Napollya - Freeform, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 19:37:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7905016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotAnAngel97/pseuds/NotAnAngel97
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya thought this would be a simple job. The attractive stranger he just accidentally kidnapped proved him wrong.<br/>Napoleon thought this was just going to be another dull event. The gorgeous madman waving the gun about in the passenger seat of his car proved him wrong.</p>
<p>Or</p>
<p>The Wrong Getaway Car Affair</p>
            </blockquote>





	Would It Really Kill You If We Kissed?

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm alive! And posting in TMFU fandom for the first time, so be gentle. Title based on my favourite line in the song 'Drive.' by Halsey. So, this is an AU, will have smut. Don't like, don't read.  
> Don't own, sadly. So yeah, kudos=love and enjoy, my fine furry friends.

Of all the things to have gone wrong on this mission, it was a goddamn Chihuahua that alerted the guards to the presence of an intruder. Illya wasn't sure if he could ever live it down; Gaby for one was going to make sure he would never forget this. Speaking of which, there was that ridiculously flashy car she insisted on using as their getaway car pulling out of the drive. Gravel crunched under the tires as the silver Aston Martin DB9 slowed to a halt.

Without delay, Illya sprinted across the manicured lawn. Tucked securely under his arm were the documents Waverly has sent him to recover. Behind him, guards shouted at him to stop. Luckily for Illya, they couldn't hope to catch up with his long strides. He yanked the passenger door open and flung the files onto the car floor. Hands free, he groped for the firearm holstered under his suede jacket. A few well-aimed shots later, his pursuers lay on the ground, their shouts reduced to pained moans.

Illya could feel the tension in his shoulders lessen slightly, but knew they were not in the clear yet. Folding his long legs into the sports car, he barked out an order to drive. He had already turned around again to close the door; his gun trained on the crumpled masses of the Vinciguerra’s security team as he slammed the passenger door shut. The car leapt forward with a start, and with a wide swerve, sped out of the driveway and onto the winding country road.

With a sigh, Illya felt his body sink into the leather back of his seat as a wave of exhaustion swept over him. His eyes fluttered shut and he enjoyed a few slow breaths. Now all was left to do was deliver the files to their contact from U.N.C.L.E. and his work was done. Illya could feel himself falling into a calm state of relaxat-

‘Would you mind terribly if I asked you to put away your firearm?’ A cultured, somewhat uncertain, slightly amused and decidedly _male_ voice inquired. Illya’s eyes snapped wide open and his grip on his gun tightened. Twisting his body so it was flattened against the passenger door, he trained his weapon on the man behind the steering wheel.

Dark, lustrous locks, smoothed back with gel. They looked slightly unruly, as if someone had run their fingers through them and mussed them. Intelligent blue eyes darted from Illya’s face, to the barrel of the gun pointed at him, to the road and then back to his face again. Long elegant fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly, knuckles a ghostly pale. He was clearly dressed to impress, sporting a charcoal three-piece tailored to emphasize his tensed broad shoulders. A cornflower blue tie glimmered slightly, catching the barest flickers of light escaping the various controls on the dashboard. All-in-all, a handsome and slightly nervous man sat in the seat Illya had assumed Gaby would occupy. Stunned, all Illya could do was growl.

‘Who the hell are you?’

So his mystery passenger was Russian, Napoleon mused. Yet another bit of the puzzle to play around with. You see, Napoleon had been minding his own business, looking quite forward to returning to his hotel suite, perhaps with the beautiful receptionist from the front desk. It had been a spectacularly dull evening socializing with the elite snobs even if they did pay him well. That all changed however, when a rather gorgeous madman had climbed into his car and rudely demanded he drive. His lack of manners was more than made up for by the firearm he was brandishing however, so Napoleon elected to comply.

That said, Napoleon couldn’t help himself from bristling at the tone of his passenger.

‘Now that I believe is my question. Considering this is my car and all.’ The Russian bear was not amused. With a snarl, he pressed the barrel of the gun to Napoleon’s head. Napoleon swallowed a snarky retort. Now was clearly not the time for his smart-ass comments.

‘My name is Napoleon. Napoleon Solo.’ The Russian snorted and prodded him with the gun.

‘Obviously fake name, not to mention ridiculous.’ Napoleon narrowed his eyes, but the Russian continued speaking. ‘

Your wallet. Give it to me. Slowly.’ One hand stayed on the wheel and his eyes glued to the road while the other slipped inside his jacket. Gently, so not to startle the gun-wielding idiot beside him, he drew his wallet free and tossed it to his passenger. The Russian bear snatched it up like a starving animal snatches food and began to rifle through it. All the while, his weapon remained glued to Napoleon’s head. He tilted his head to the side, in an attempt to put a little distance between it and a bullet.

Studying the contents carefully, Illya couldn’t help but chuckle. The other man grimaced.

‘My mother was French and school was hard. Could we perhaps move past my ridiculous name and discuss why exactly you are currently sitting in my car?’ Illya sobered up swiftly and prodded Napoleon once more with the gun. He did, however, put the safety on again.

‘Fine, your name really is Napoleon. That doesn’t answer my question. Who are you?’ The man sighed dramatically and struck a thoughtful pose.

‘Who are any of us really, in the grand scheme of things?’ Illya snarled and curled his free hand around the throat of the infuriating American. He gave it a threatening squeeze, taking no small amount of pleasure from the gasping of the smaller man.

‘Apparently not much of a philosopher, are we?’ Napoleon coughed, ‘I’m an art dealer from New York. I was invited by Victoria Vinciguerra to appraise her collection of Greek and Roman sculptures.’

Illya considered the man himself just as thoroughly as he considered his answer. His pulse had been racing, but that was to be expected. His breathing, while slightly laboured, hadn’t spiked. He hadn’t stuttered over any part of his story. His answer was detailed, but not too detailed as to be overthought. The Vinciguerras were known to be art enthusiasts.

‘Why did you stop your car at the end of the driveway, or start driving when I got in?’ Illya demanded. The other man snorted.

‘And exactly how inclined would you have been to refuse the madman leaping into your car screaming drive while waving a gun?’ Illya had to concede that the man had a point. ‘As for why I was stopped, I tend to do that from time to time. You know, before I pull out onto a road. One of those pesky laws.’

Illya could hardly believe his bad luck. This was worse than the Chihuahua. Gaby would never let him forget The Time Illya Got Into The Wrong Getaway Car. Forget Gaby; Waverly was going to making snide remarks about this until the day he died. And then have his ghost do it. Illya almost wished he had gotten caught by those guards; it would have been far less humiliating.

Napoleon’s passenger looked fairly shell-shocked. So perhaps Napoleon wasn’t about die tonight. The gun pressed to his head dropped into the Russian’s lap, while the hand wrapped around his throat fell away. In different circumstances, Napoleon might have found that disappointing. The Russian appeared to be every inch Napoleon’s type, the whole kidnapping business aside.

‘Phone!’ The Russian barked. ‘Where is it?’ Honestly, no manners whatsoever. Rummaging once more through his jacket, Napoleon passed over his sleek iPhone 6+. And if he muttered something along the lines of ‘raised by wolves,’ well, that was his business.

‘The passcode is 3010.’ Napoleon supplied helpfully. He elected to ignore the baleful glare from his passenger, who had been struggling with the lock screen. Curious, Napoleon watched the man type in a number without pause. Who even remembered phone numbers off by heart anymore?

Attempting to ignore his driver, Illya wasted no time in calling Gaby. Better to get this over and done with. The phone rang twice before a harried German was answering.

‘Привет. Габи, это я.’ (Hello? Gaby, it’s me.)

‘Илья. Кто еще?’ (Illya. Who else?)

'Где я? Это ... трудно объяснить.’ (Where am I? That’s…complicated.)

Illya glanced at his companion, who was shaking his head softly, smirk spread wide across his face.

‘That’s one way to put it.’ He mumbled. Illya’s eyebrows rose in surprise. He spoke Russian? Sighing, he returned to his conversation. He may as well speak in English in that case. Gaby’s Russian was far from perfect. It physically hurt him to listen to sometimes.

‘I have the files, but there was complication when I was leaving. I was forced to find different method of escape. It’s not important. Where do I meet our… friend?’ It was obvious the American (Napoleon, Illya chuckled inwardly) was shamelessly listening in on his conversation with undisguised curiosity. The less he knew the better. For both of their sakes.

'Piazza Navona, tomorrow morning, 6AM. They will be dressed as a jogger and be wearing a red cap. After that, go straight to the safe-house. I will meet you there.’ With that, Gaby was gone. Illya memorized these instructions and glanced at his father’s watch. It was half past two. Plenty of time to spare. Illya lowered the window, and carelessly tossed away the phone.

'What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Napoleon was seething. ‘That was brand new. It has all my contacts for work.’ His Russian friend had the nerve to simply smirk and tilt his seat back. Cleary making himself comfortable, he lazily brandished the gun still loosely held in his left hand.

‘Here is what is about to happen. You are going to drive me into the city, to Piazza Navona. Do you know it?’ Jaw tense, Napoleon nodded. This guy may be hot but he was an asshole. ‘Good,’ he continued, tone mocking. God, what Napoleon would give to wipe that smirk off his face. He took a deep breath, trying to remember what his yoga instructor had suggested to relieve stress. Of course, it wasn’t his mouth Napoleon had been paying attention to at the time. So this guy was trying to piss off Napoleon. He chose the wrong car if he thought this was a game he would win.

‘So, _Illya_ ,’ Napoleon drawled, rolling around the foreign name around in his mouth. ‘What is it exactly you do, you know, when you’re not climbing into the wrong cars?’ No response from his passenger, though he did release a small puff of exasperation.

‘No, not feeling very chatty? Well, I for one simply can’t stand silence in the car.’ His hand drifted to the dashboard and static filled the car as he fiddled with the radio. A quick glance at his passenger showed a finger tapping against his thigh. Good, it looked like he was getting somewhere. Satisfied, he purposefully hit a pothole. The car jolted harshly and Napoleon swore he heard a growl.

‘Ah, that’s more like it,’ Napoleon settled back into his seat. American pop music flooded the car. He began to hum along to it, fingers tapping along to the catchy beat. Taking a sharp bend in the road, possibly faster than was safe, the car skidded, rocking its passengers.

His passenger’s fists were clenched so tight, Napoleon was stunned he didn’t hear bones grinding. ‘Don’t have a dirty mind, just be a classy guy,’ he crooned, swerving violently to avoid a puddle. ‘Buy me a ring, buy-buy me a ring.’ ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fTSQ7ALBme8))

A large hand slammed onto the dashboard and cut the music. Napoleon smirked. Looks like he had won this particular game, and in record time. His Russian companion- _Illya_ , Napoleon reminded himself- had irritation written across his face.

‘Shut. Up.’ He ordered, curling his hand into a fist. ‘And how did you know my name?’ He cracked one eye open and glared suspiciously at Napoleon. Napoleon simply raised an eyebrow at this attempt at threatening.

‘You told me.’ The duh was obvious in his tone.

‘No I did not.’ Illya retorted, bristling. He had most definitely not shared anything with his companion, and he didn’t appreciate his tone.

‘You _kinda_ did,’ the man replied. ‘When you were talking to your friend, you said “It’s me. Illya.”’ Illya flushed slightly, remembering now. He had felt safe using his own name, not knowing yet the other man, Napoleon, apparently spoke Russian. He felt a pleasant heat pooling in his stomach at the way Napoleon rolled his name around his mouth, almost as if he was tasting it. Illya wanted to taste him-

WHAT! Illya’s mind froze. No, this man was a distraction, an irritation! A gorgeous irritation, but annoying nonetheless. The mission! Yes, think about the mission. In fact, this man worked for the Vinciguerras. Perhaps he could prove useful. The Vinciguerras were funding the terrorist organisation T.H.R.U.S.H. Of that, Waverly was adamant. But there was no obvious paper trail, nothing concrete to tie them together. Perhaps they were moving funds through art.

‘You mentioned you are employed by Victoria Vinciguerra. For how long?’ Illya demanded. Napoleon considered his answer for a moment.

‘Hmm, let me see. Ah yes, her assistant contacted my office in New York about a month, looking for an appraisal on a collection of Bernini pieces. It contained some exquisite pieces, including a personal favourite of mine, the Martyrdom of Saint Laurence.’

‘So you come all the way to Italy to value some art. Surely you could have done this from New York?’

‘What can I say? I have a weakness for Bernini and the weather here is considerably better. Not to mention the food. This is something of a holiday for me.’ He threw Illya a wry smile. ‘At least, that _was_ the plan.’

Napoleon continued to discuss the art business, explain the practices for buying and selling pieces discreetly and Illya was able to build a clear picture in his mind of how the Vinciguerras were able to fund T.H.R.U.S.H. without leaving any evidence. The type of evidence that U.N.C.L.E. would be looking for anyway. It would appear Illya’s unhappy accident was actually quite fortunate. Napoleon was a mine of information. And if Illya found the sound of his voice soothing, well that was his business.

Glancing at his companion, Napoleon was pleased to see him appear more relaxed. Evidently, stressed people waving guns around him stressed Napoleon out. It had absolutely nothing to do with how he was far more attractive when he didn’t have a permanent scowl on his face. He was clearly more than just a pretty face too, showing a great deal of interest and asking intelligent questions. Napoleon loved his work, so if he was gushing a small bit from the pleasure of having such an attentive audience, well, who could blame him? Talk quickly drifted from the Vinciguerras and their illegal dealings to other various anecdotes.

‘So I told him that the only way that was a genuine Jan van Eyck was if it was done by his ghost, considering it was painted two hundred years after he died.’ Illya sniggered, a cute sound that made Napoleon smile grow wider. ‘There are no words to describe his face when he realised he had paid twice the value at auction for a forgery!’

Pulling into a deserted car park, Napoleon cut the engine and turned expectedly to his companion. The night sky had given way to the barest hint of dawn. The only sound was the gentle plash of water from the fountain in the centre of the square across the road. La Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi, if Napoleon recalled correctly, The Fountain of Four Rivers. Ironic, really. His adventure in Italy had started because of Bernini. Only fitting they end with him too.

Illya found himself rather taken aback when Napoleon had stopped the car. The American was an engaging story-teller, weaving tales that had Illya laughing harder than he had laughed in a long time. He had genuinely enjoyed himself. Which is why he was stunned to realise they had already reached their destination. He checked his watch, squinting at the hands in the morning light. It was just after four-thirty. He had an hour and a half before he had to meet his contact. It would only take him a few minutes to walk to the drop site. So now what to do to kill time? He eyed Napoleon speculatively. He was not unaware of the appreciative glances the man had thrown him from time to time. Perhaps they could figure out a way to make the time pass together.

Napoleon recognized that look the moment Illya came to a decision. The look that screamed ‘I’ve had a fantastic idea and it involves getting out of these clothes right now.’ Napoleon wasn’t about to argue. He grabbed Illya by the lapels of his jacket and yanked him forward. Their lips crashed together in a brutal display of passion, their tongues warring for dominance. Eager to get closer, Napoleon twisted his body so that he was kneeling on his seat. The leather seat squeaked as he shifted. His teeth nibbled at Illya’s lower lip, swallowing his low moan. The sound went straight to Napoleon’s groin, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His trousers suddenly felt far too tight.

Breathless, Illya began to draw away, only for Napoleon’s lips to hungrily chase after him. One hand untangled itself from his jacket and yanked down his turtleneck. He latched on to the gorgeous pale skin of his throat, nipping and suckling until Illya was moaning with desperation. Napoleon grinned smugly as he pulled away to admire the red blotches decorated the Russian’s neck.

Illya caught the self-satisfied smirk on his companion and narrowed his eyes. So the American thought he was winning because he had gotten Illya a little flustered. Big mistake. One hand went down to grope Napoleon’s firm ass, the other wrapped around his chest. With a tug, Napoleon found himself being picked up.

He let out an indignant grunt at being handled, one that made Illya give a low chuckle. He settled his companion on his lap, knees on either side of Illya’s, chests pressed together. It was a tight fit, and Napoleon cursed as his head banged off the roof of the car. Illya curled a hand around the nape of his neck and drew his mouth back down. Their lips pressed together, slower this time. More sensual. Napoleon playfully suckled at his tongue and Illya thought he was going to come from that alone. The hand curled around Napoleon’s neck became a fist in his hair, tugging at the luscious curls.

Napoleon let out an embarrassingly desperate moan when he felt Illya’s hand drift up to his hair. He had a major hair-pulling kink and his rock-hard cock knew all about it. Napoleon needed to touch himself right now. His hands pulled at his belt with hurried but smooth movements until it slid free. Barely taking the time to unbutton his trousers, he yanked both them and his boxers down and over the swell of his ass. His cock bounced against his stomach, finally free. It was glistening with pre-cum and impressively hard. Illya hummed appreciatively against his lips as he pulled away.

‘Маленькая шлюха (Little whore). Look how hard you are for me.’ Illya said, his voice low and throaty. ‘You need me to fuck you, don’t you, Сука (Bitch)?’ Napoleon groaned, the sound hoarse and pleading to his own ears.

‘Твоя сука (Your bitch.)’ He mumbled shamelessly, hands pawing at Illya’s trousers. ‘Fuck me, please Illya. I need you, please!’ He pleaded. Illya eyed him contemplatively for a moment, before ducking his head.

‘Since you asked so nicely,’ he whispered into Napoleon’s ear, nibbling at the lobe. Napoleon sighed, the relief evident on his face. Twisting an arm behind him, he began to blindly root through the glove compartment. Illya took this opportunity to unbutton his own trousers. One hand settled on Napoleon’s hip to hold him steady as the other worked his pants and briefs down over his ass. The car was not the ideal place to do this, especially for large men their size, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. His own cock free, Illya began to stroke it to full hardness. A glance at Napoleon’s stunned face made his smirk grow wider.

‘Still so certain you want me to fuck you, тигр?’ (Tiger)

Napoleon nodded, eyes trained on Illya’s cock. Safe to say, it was in proportion with the rest of the Russian giant. His hand searched a little more desperately in the glove compartment, looking for-

‘Aha!’ Napoleon declared, retrieving a bottle of lube. Hmmm, he might need to replace it soon. Illya plucked it from his fingers, studying the label. He raised an eyebrow.

‘Do this sort of thing often?’

‘I’m like a Boy Scout. Always like to be prepared.’ Illya popped the lid open and squirted a generous amount onto his hand. Tracing his fingers around the pucker of Napoleon’s ass, his lips split into a wicked grin.

‘You are most definitely not Boy Scout.’ With that, he eased a single finger into his ass. Napoleon bit his lip slightly at the burn. It had been a while since he had been on this end of things and his body rebelled against the intrusion. With a deep breath, he willed his body to relax. Illya was gentle, taking his time to slowly add a second finger, then a third.

‘Look how much you need this. Your hole is so greedy, needing to be filled,’ He teased, crooking his fingers just so. Napoleon thought he was going to cry at the wave of pleasure that swept over him. He threw his head back and _howled_.

‘For the love of God, fuck me already Illya,’ he demanded breathlessly, batting at Illya’s wrist weakly. How was he still so in control? Napoleon was a mess, hair in disarray, panting heavily while sweat dripped down his neck. He had long since shucked his jacket and vest on to the floor, unbuttoned his shirt and tossed his tie god knows where. His pants and boxers were draped across the steering wheel, while his shoes and socks were thrown on to the floor of the driver’s side. Illya, in spite of his cock standing proudly erect and a few bite marks along his jaw and neck, looked entirely calm and collected.

‘If you insist.’ Illya pulled his fingers free with a pop. Napoleon’s left leg was pulled up and over Illya’s shoulder, his right splayed out to the side. Illya took a moment to appreciate Napoleon’s flexibility. He grabbed Napoleon’s hips to steady him.

‘You will not come until I let you.’ Illya ordered him.

‘Are you ready to ride me, ковбой?’ He took the delicious groan Napoleon gave as an answer. Lifting him by the waist, he settled him down slowly on his cock, easing him down. Napoleon was mewling beautifully, head tossed back as bit by bit, he took all of Illya.

‘Now it’s up to you ковбой.’ Illya’s teeth nipped at Napoleon’s jaw, drawing breath-taking gasps. ‘Time to ride.’

And he did. Wonderfully. Wrapping his arms behind Illya’s neck, Napoleon rode him. Using Illya’s shoulders for leverage, he pulled himself up and slammed back down over. It was fast, and it was messy and he didn’t care. Illya’s cock filled him up so full that it made sure he always hit that sweet spot. Napoleon was seeing stars.

‘Could you come like this, I wonder?’ Illya was breathless, watching the incredible sight of Napoleon fucking himself on his cock. ‘Untouched, just from my cock? It doesn’t look like it would take much,’ he mused, flicking the tip of Napoleon’s weeping length. It slapped against Napoleon’s bared stomach. Napoleon retaliated, biting down on his throat and drawing blood. Illya yelped, losing his calm collected facade for a moment. He stared at Napoleon’s cheeky grin with disbelief for a moment. Then his own mouth stretched into a wide smirk.

‘You should not have done that,’ he warned playfully. Grasping Napoleon’s hips, he began to fuck him. Hard. Thrusting in time with Napoleon, he brought himself closer to the edge, slamming into Napoleon’s tight ass over and over. Napoleon was nearly faint, hands tightening in Illya’s hair as he fought the need to come. Illya was dragging it out, making Napoleon almost cry.

‘Oh God- Illya- need to- need to come- _Please_!’ Napoleon was begging shamelessly now. Illya decided to have mercy on him. Thrusting even harder, he brought his mouth to Napoleon’s lips.

‘Come for me, Napoleon,’ he murmured, capturing those plump, kiss-swollen lips in a deep kiss. Napoleon literally melted for him. With a strangled yell, his cock spurted, coating him and Illya with his come. A few more thrusts and Illya was joining him, nearly howling as he filled Napoleon, claimed him, made him _his_.

The two sat in silence for a while, each attempting to catch their breath. Napoleon was collapsed against Illya’s chest, Illya’s large hands gently cradling him. He felt like purring with contentment as his fingers gently traced patterns into his clammy skin. Napoleon gazed ruefully at the mess he had made and blew out a satisfied sigh.

‘I don’t think I’ve come so hard since I was a teenager.’ He admitted. Illya felt himself warm with pride. Napoleon squirmed in his lap, folding his long leg back down and throwing himself back on to the driver’s seat. He was a delicious mess, draped against the door, his naked legs akimbo. His bare chest was coated in his own sticky drying come. Napoleon was grimacing.

‘Be a lamb, Illya, and fetch the wipes from the glove compartment,’ he requested. Illya rolled his eyes. Of course he carried wipes in his car. As he was in such a good mood, still riding the post-orgasm haze, he elected to ignore the pet name and do as he was bid. He grabbed a few for himself, before tossing the packet to Napoleon.

‘Спасибо (Thank you).’ Napoleon replied mindlessly, wiping at the white spurts staining his chest. Illya patted himself down, cleaning the come off his jacket and turtleneck. Twisting awkwardly, he worked his trousers back up over his hips. It looks like Napoleon had the same idea as he began to root around for his clothes. Too exhausted to do much, Napoleon just pulled his boxers on. He was too lazy to even button up his shirt. He observed Illya checked the time on his watch and was stunned to see the sun already peeking up over the horizon. It’s golden hues flooded the morning sky. Illya looked, dared he say, disappointed.

‘Time to go?’ Napoleon understood that this, whatever this was, was sadly coming to an end. It was a shame. Despite their rocky beginning, he had become rather taken with the Russian. The man was a fantastic lover, not to mention intelligent with his own unique sense of humour that Napoleon rather liked. Illya nodded, eyes distracted.

‘Well, I guess this is goodbye.’ Illya’s jaw was tense. Looks like Napoleon wasn’t the only one to be saddened to be saying farewell. He wasn’t sure if it was his own desire to see the Russian again, or the kicked puppy eyes he was giving him, but Napoleon found his mouth opening again.

‘You know, if you’re ever in New York, you could always look me up.’ Illya’s eyes lit up for a moment, before settling his face into one of indifference. ‘You should be more careful, ковбой.’ He warned, his growing smirk betraying the playful teasing. ‘I just might do this.’ Napoleon found himself closing the distance between their lips once more.

‘Good.’ He whispered, before capturing Illya’s mouth in a bruising kiss. Illya’s hand went to cup Napoleon’s neck as he sought to commit the taste of Napoleon to memory. The other pushed against Napoleon’s chest gently, separating the two of them.

‘I must go. I am sorry.’ He really was. Illya would have given anything to stay there, but he had a mission to complete. He gathered the files, which had been scattered across the floor of the car. Rising back up, he pressed a single chaste kiss to the corner of Napoleon’s disappointed frown. His American really was quite adorable when he pouted.

‘New York.’ He promised, before forcing himself to open the door of the car. The morning breeze swept into the car, swirling up the musky aroma of sex. He steeled himself to climb out of the car without looking back. If he did, Illya wasn’t sure he could make himself leave. Shutting the car door shut behind him, he began to stride towards the fountain in the centre of the piazza across the road. His eyes strained in the early morning light, mind already switching back to the mission at hand. Behind him, he heard to faint rev of an engine, more like a soft purring than any car Illya had heard before. He let himself glance back. Just one look, he promised himself.

Napoleon’s playful blue eyes locked onto his. He raised two fingers to his forehead in a mock salute and mouthed something at him. Two words. New York. Reversing out of the car park, he sped away into the early Italian dawn. Illya found himself grinning widely, as he turned to meet the woman pretending to stretch nearby.

‘Till then, ковбой.’

**Epilogue**

Three weeks later, Napoleon was working from his home office. Well, trying to. The Vinciguerras had been arrested a couple weeks ago, all their assets seized by the Italian government. Napoleon had gotten a call, asking him to provide an appraisal on their entire collection. Apparently he had come highly recommended. It was an impressive collection in its entirety, and that meant an impressive fee for Napoleon. And yet he couldn’t help but become distracted every time he sat down to work. Instead of the marbled physique of the sculptures, he saw the ripple of toned flesh. It was infuriating. Illya had worked himself into the very core of Napoleon’s being and he couldn’t get him out of his mind.

Sighing, he twirled his chair around to face the floor length windows that lined one wall of his office. They offered a spectacular view of the sprawling Manhattan at night. The dark sky was lit up by the ever-present lights of the city. Maybe he just call it a day, he mused. The Met was hosting some rare Van Gogh pieces on loan from Musée d’Orsay.

So deep in thought was he, he startled when a pair of hands settled on his shoulders. He tried to jump up, but the hands pushed down, keeping him seated. A pair of lips ghosted by his ear. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and Napoleon found himself shivering with pleasure.

‘That invitation still stand?’ Oh, God, that _voice_. That voice had featured prominently in Napoleon’s fantasies lately. He continued to stare out the window, pretending to consider his answer.

‘Hmmm, well now that depends,’ he said, looking up at Illya’s face hovering over him. Illya’s eyes grew smouldering as one hand curled loosely around Napoleon’s throat. He lowered his head until their breath was mingling, lips almost touching.

‘Oh really?’ Napoleon nodded slightly, blue eyes ablaze. ‘On what, exactly?’

Napoleon surged up, closing the space between them and crushing their lips together. They kissed like it was breath to a drowning man. Napoleon’s tongue demanded access to Illya’s mouth, and he acquiesced. His teeth latched onto his bottom lip, tugging and nibbling. Breathless, the pair broke apart. Napoleon was panting heavily as he rose from his seat and sent it careening to the side. He wrapped his arms around Illya’s neck, and pressed a thigh between his legs.

‘On exactly how long it takes you to get me to my bed.’ Illya shook his head as he snorted. Seizing Napoleon by the hips, he yanked him up sharply into his arms. Napoleon obligingly locked his legs around Illya’s waist and let himself be carried from his office. The fact that Illya was able to pick him up and hold him easily went straight to his groin.

Napoleon began to suckle at Illya’s throat, drawing gasps as red blotches blossomed along the pale, taunt flesh of his neck. They crashed into the door of Napoleon’s bedroom. The lamp was the only source of light in the room, lighting it with a dark glow. Unhooking Napoleon’s arms from around his neck, he tossed him onto the bed. Napoleon landed with a soft thud, pushing himself up onto his elbows. His dark hair was a dishevelled mess. Illya slammed the door shut behind him and stalked towards the bed. His gaze was hungry, the way a predator studied his prey. A wicked grin spread across his face.

‘I hope you remember how to ride, Cowboy,’

**Author's Note:**

> Napoleon definitely A) Has a major hair-pulling kink and B) Is totally a pushy bottom.
> 
> Napoleon singing Dear Future Husband is a reference to the amazing Napollya fanvid made by JesstheFlamingMess, check it out.
> 
> Also, I know zero Russian so feel free to correct any mistakes


End file.
